


Happy Mother's Day

by Therapeutic_Steter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Claudia Stilinski Feels, Gen, Good Peter Hale, M/M, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 16:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Therapeutic_Steter/pseuds/Therapeutic_Steter
Summary: “I miss you,” Stiles whispered. “I miss your laugh. Your voice. Your eyes.I miss your face.” He hiccuped, sniffling, and he pushed it all down, trying to control himself.





	Happy Mother's Day

**Author's Note:**

> I know I haven't been active for a while and I do apologize. I've kind of explained on my tumblr, but basically I've been having a rough go of things for the last few months and it's taken up a lot of my time and energy. I managed a little drabble for mother's day though and maybe I'll be able to get everything together one day and get back into the fandom.

Stiles had a mind that made it easy to compartmentalize, made it easy to lock something away for a long time, lost in a maze of attention-grabbers and deadend thoughts. He didn't forget--he _never_ forgot--but he could not think about it, not let it interfere with whatever he was currently hyper-focused on or enter into whatever derailment his mind was falling under. When your life so often hung in the balance over whatever you were focused on, it made it a little easier to not deviate. Well, that, and his medication.

Stiles had aged too soon. He'd barely been given a chance to mourn his mother before he was put in a position to take care of his own father. Then it was Scott, Derek, the rest of the pack, then eventually the whole damn town. He couldn't stop, couldn't rest, couldn't _breathe_ until everyone was safe, all their enemies gone, everything finally--

Stiles stepped into his childhood room, his footsteps eerily loud in the quiet of his once home. He grabbed the empty box nearest to him and started packing with an oddly empty mind.

The clothes were first. Easy. Then his books, his figures, his posters. The miscellaneous knick-knacks from his desk, his shoes, his cords and gaming systems and research.

When he got to the box in the back of his closet, he paused, fingers twitching as he hesitated to touch it. His mind was a loud rush of white noise as he fought to keep the welling emotion down, the wall he'd managed through sheer willpower to keep up since the day his father had thrown a bottle at him and ranted about his eyes looking just like his mother's. Stiles shut his eyes, biting his lip until he tasted iron, trembling uncontrollably.

He fell to his knees, reaching out and cradling the small box close to his chest. It was a simple wooden box with a tiny combination lock, the type you might find on a cheap diary for children. It was barely large enough for a baseball and Stiles shivered as he heard it's precious contents shift within the box at his touch.

“I miss you,” he whispered, forehead touching the box. “I miss your laugh. Your voice. Your eyes. _I miss your face_.” He hiccuped, sniffling, and he pushed it all down, trying to control himself.

The biggest regret in the Stilinski house was never spoken of. It happened the night after they laid Claudia Stilinski in the ground, when the Sheriff, in a drunken rage, had burned every last picture of her he could find to try and stave off the pain.

Stiles’ fingers shook as he clicked the combination into the tiny lock.

11-23-69. His mom's birthday.

The lock came open with some coaxing and Stiles peeled open the lid.

Inside was a dried rose petal from his mom's wedding bouquet that Stiles had found in the attic before his dad had gotten rid of it, a necklace his mom had worn that was from her mother, and a post-it note his mom had written for one of his lunches in elementary that said ‘ _Be good today my little Mieczyslaw and we will go to the park this afternoon. Big kisses! XoXo -mom_.’

Stiles closed the lid at one glance of the writing, feeling the words like a knife to his heart. He set it to the side, curling in on himself as he pressed his forehead to the floor and silently sobbed.

“Stiles?”

Stiles startled, mind emptying and pain pushed away as he reached for the blade he kept at his back. He shook his head at the reflex, processing the familiar voice, and only seconds later was Peter walking though his bedroom doorway.

“Sweetheart?” He murmured, instantly at Stiles’ side and worriedly looking for his hurt. Stiles knew he could smell it, knew it would hurt for Peter to scent such emotions from him. Stiles sniffled, wiping at his face and trying to smile.

“Just finishing up,” he tried to assure him, his voice croaking from emotion.

Peter's eyes landed on the box. Stiles stilled.

“Do you need some help?” He asked quietly, reaching out hesitantly to brush his fingers down Stiles’ arm. “Or would you rather I left?”

Stiles twisted his hand to intertwine his fingers with Peter's, looking back down at the box and tracing the seam with one finger.

“It's all I have left of her,” Stiles admitted. “All I could save before…” he sighed, dropping his head.

Peter frowned, squeezing Stiles' fingers.

“I...I can't even really remember her face,” Stiles admitted. “Not...not _really_. Not _fully_. And it hurts, to forget.”

“I can't tell you it ever gets easy,” Peter said quietly. They both knew how he still had nightmares of the fire, still sometimes broke down at the loss of his pack, still had full moons where all his wolf could do was howl and cry for pack members long lost. “But it does get eas _ier_.”

Stiles laughed wetly, quickly devolving into sobs which he buried into Peter's neck. Peter wrapped his arms around him and let him cry. Gods knew his boy needed to let everything go for once.

Stiles sniffled after a while, pulling away, and Peter gently wiped at his face with a handkerchief which made Stiles smile softly when he took it out.

“You're so posh,” he teased quietly, feeling just a little lighter.

Peter smiled back warmly. “Just because I carry a handkerchief doesn't mean I'm posh,” he refuted in a whisper.

Stiles giggled and Peter's heart swooned at the delicate and rare sound.

“I wish you could have met her,” Stiles said, looking at the box with a wistfulness that went beyond pain. “She would've given you hell, but she would've liked you too, I think.”

“I wish you could've met the others too,” he agreed. “They definitely would've loved you. Would've threatened me if I ever did anything to lose you. Probably would've chosen you over me if we'd ever broken up.”

Stiles laughed, pushing down the wetness that came, and grinned ruefully. “What a broken pair we make, hm?”

Peter brushed his thumb across Stiles’ wet cheek and he leaned forward to kiss him slowly. “I love you, darling,” he whispered.

Stiles leaned into the kiss, pressing their foreheads together when they broke apart, nose brushing along Peter's.

“I love you too, my wolf.”

Stiles pulled away after a long moment and silence, shoulders strong once more, and he didn't hesitate as he latched the lock once more of the box. He stood and gently set it into the nearest box, patting it twice.

_Love you, mom_ , he thought. “Let's finish this later,” he said, taking Peter's hand and walking from the room.

_Happy mother's day._


End file.
